Intertwined Lives, Inseparable Hearts
by irridescentsong
Summary: A prompt table, and a very dirty mind. The majority of these are 100 words, but a special few of the bunch will be 1,000 words or more.  This is the story of Mycroft Holmes and Gregory Lestrade.
1. Chapter 1: Prompts 1 through 10

This is the beginning of a continuing story, with shifting perspectives from one to the next. I'm posting these 10 at a time, longer (read: over 1000) prompts, are posted individually. You can find them all here, they will be clearly labelled. This is Mystrade, and it does include porn. I promise. All prompts are from the fanfic100 challenge table on Livejournal. This will be regularly updated. Please enjoy!

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><p><strong>001. Beginnings<strong>  
>Their relationship is strained. Neither one can take time off - Greg because of an impending promotion, Mycroft because well, the British Government never takes days off. They meet often, spend the night together, and get up at all hours to deal with crises. There are stretches of days where they can't see one another. Greg doesn't leave the Met if Mycroft isn't home; Mycroft hates leaving the country, especially when it's unexpected. He's grown used to sleeping next to Greg, and it's unbelievably hard to sleep when he's not there.<br>In the beginning, it's rough, but it's worth it.

**002. Middles**  
>Mycroft works hard to keep his waistline in check. With Greg's rich cooking (and a penchant for pasta), however, often he doesn't achieve that goal. Since Greg started cooking at home more often, they've both put on a few pounds, although Greg doesn't notice it on Mycroft. However, Mycroft does. He works diligently to maintain his weight – which has always been a sore spot (particularly because of the teasing) – and often, it is hard to find the time. Greg notices Mycroft's efforts, and makes a conscious effort to cook lower calorie foods in an effort to save his sweetheart's middle.<p>

**003. Ends**  
>If asked, Mycroft's favorite physical attribute of his lover is his arse. The way it feels when he puts his hands on bare skin, the way jeans cup it perfectly, the way he shakes it while dancing and making dinner when he thinks he's not being watched. It tastes delicious, loving to run his tongue up and down the soft flesh, nibbling here and there. He loves to lift Greg by it, hoisting him onto a countertop or the table. Out of character for the normally stoic man, sure, but where his lover is concerned, there's nothing he won't do.<p>

**004. Insides**  
>He has to believe it was an inside job. There's just no other explanation. He leaves the Met exhausted, ready to just leave the horrible case behind at his desk, but he can't stop thinking about it the whole way home. The DI from another division, gunned down in her office, after hours. There's no one else that could hack the security cameras, and enter the building without drawing suspicion. When he arrives home, Mycroft is there, waiting, and takes one look at him, and pulls him inside the circle of his arms. He is safe and home at last.<p>

**005. Outsides**  
>The umbrella goes everywhere with him, no matter the weather. It could be snowing, and he'd still have it. During summer, when the heat is at its worst, and there are people dying in their houses from it, he still carries it. Greg is convinced that there's a weapon inside it, but never gets the chance to check his theory. When Mycroft comes home, it is nowhere in sight. Greg asks after it one night. "It's in the car," Mycroft replies easily, as if it were no importance. Greg often wonders if Mycroft would feel naked walking outside without it.<p>

**006. Hours**  
>When Mycroft announces he's going out of the country, and doesn't know how long he will be gone, Greg asks him to spend the night before he has to leave. The time they have is spent in each other's arms making love. Greg tells him of a case, Mycroft talks politics. Greg knows Mycroft's work is secret, but wished that sometimes he would just tell him. Just once. Tell him where he will be, so he can stop worrying. Instead, he stays up, watching Mycroft sleep, the last few hours ticking by, and wonders when he will see him again.<p>

**007. Days**  
>Days drag on, oppressive heat dragging him and the entire squad down. Greg has a hard time going into one of the murder scenes – a particularly nasty one that has been sitting in the London heat for days. The sight alone is enough for him to march quickly outside, dragging in fresh air through his nose, and checking his phone for any messages from Mycroft – still out of the country. He clears his head, and marches back into the scene, giving orders, no longer affected. The long summer days pass by slowly, and Mycroft has been gone for 12 already.<p>

**008. Weeks**  
><em>-Incoming Message-<em> When are you coming home? Greg  
><em>-Incoming Message-<em> Please contact me. I need to know you're alright. Greg  
><em>-Incoming Message-<em> It's been 10 weeks now. I need to hear from you. Greg  
><em>-Incoming Message-<em> What is going on? 14 weeks is extreme. Greg  
><em>-Incoming Message-<em> What is going on? Anthea's not answering either. Please call me. Greg  
><em>-Incoming Message-<em> Please come home. Please. Please be alright. Greg  
><em>-Incoming Message-<em> 20 weeks. Hope you're coming home soon. Greg  
><em>-Incoming Message-<em> I miss you. Come home for Christmas. Please. Greg  
><em>-Incoming Message-<em> Gregory. Be home soon. Can't talk now. M

**009. Months**  
>"Six months you were gone! Six, Mycroft! And you couldn't be arsed to pick up the phone! I was worried sick thinking you got yourself kidnapped or worse! I had no clue where the fuck you were! Six months I prayed for you to come home. You waltz in here like nothing even happened. Guess what, you're going to explain. And if I'm satisfied, then we can go to bed." All Mycroft could do was to sit there, head in his hands, and recount the story of how a five day trip to Paraguay turned into a six month one.<p>

**010. Years**  
>In all the years he'd been in public service, he'd never had a trip go as wrong as the trip to Paraguay. He was fed properly, the food having little nutrition, causing his dramatic weight loss. He was being held for ransom by some guerilla Paraguayans that had members in the country's prison system. He begged for a phone but they just laughed at him. His only saving grace was Anthea – she'd managed to escape, and it took her four months to get home to inform the proper authorities. He'd never been that scared before, so scared of losing Gregory.<p> 


	2. Chapter 2: Prompt 97

097. Writer's Choice – Cop Car Sex and Video Camera (for GalleonWillow)

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><p>It was late when he got home, and found the note. <em>Waiting for you on the back patio. Come quickly. G.<em> Mycroft could only wonder what was out there, and how long Gregory had been waiting in there for him. He glanced at his watch, and knew that he was two hours past the time he normally arrived home. Quickly, he put away his things and headed out to see what his lover wanted.  
>Greg was waiting for him, sitting atop a police car, looking pleased with himself. "What do you think?"<p>

"Gregory, what is this?"

"It's a police car."

"I know what it is, what is it doing on my back patio?"

Greg whistled. "Wouldn't you like to know," he teased. He crooked his finger at Mycroft. "Come here, and sit with me."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow, and began the perilous task of climbing on top of the police vehicle. Greg leaned over and gave him a soft kiss once he was seated next to him. "You know the wonderful thing about police cars, Mycroft? They have video cameras attached to their dash. And the nice thing about video cameras? They record acts, particularly ones that occur against the hood of the car."

"Yes, and why would that interest me at all, Gregory?"

Greg looked at him, hard in the eyes, until his face softened, and he whispered "Because I'd like to see your face on that camera when I make you come. That's why it should interest you."

Mycroft had very little objections to that. "We are outside, in the middle of London. Someone could hear us. We don't need your co-workers showing up to investigate a disturbance, do we?"

"It is 12:30 in the morning, I am on-duty, and you'll just have to keep quiet, won't you?" There was something in his eyes that said he was not going to let this go.

"I see," said Mycroft. "Well then, Detective Inspector, am I being charged with a crime? Or am I free to go?"

"Oh, no sir, Mister Holmes, you are certainly not free to go. I need to pat you down before I haul you in for questioning," Greg said, giving his voice an authoritative edge. He slid down the hood, and stood, motioning for Mycroft to do the same. "If you please."

Mycroft came sliding down after him, a bit more graceful and said, "There was something said about a pat down, sir?"

The 'sir' dripped off Mycroft's tongue like it was full of honey. Greg grabbed the lapels of Mycroft's pristine suit, and pushed him roughly down against the hood, kissing him hard and full-force. Mycroft opened his mouth beneath him, allowing himself to be man-handled, a war going on between their mouths. Their tongues slid messily against each other, fighting for dominance, and Mycroft shoved his hands between them, undoing the buttons on Gregory's jacket and shirt, exposing his tanned chest to the cold of the night.

Greg moved his hands from Mycroft's lapels to his arse, hefting him up the hood some more, to grind against him. The arse he had in his hands was the most glorious one he'd ever had, and he just couldn't get enough of it. He pulled back roughly, and flipped Mycroft over on to his stomach, reaching around him to deftly undo his trousers, and slip them and Mycroft's pants down, exposing his arse to the night.

Mycroft stretched out against the hood, and rubbed himself against Greg's hands, which were currently fondling him. "I'm not sure this is proper protocol for a-nngh- Detective Inspector, sir." Mycroft stifled a moan against his fist, wary of neighbors overhearing.

Oh, he loved it when Mycroft said 'sir' to him, in just that tone, that 'I'll p lay your game, but you remember who is the boss here' tone. He removed his hands from Mycroft's cock, and reached into his pocket, pulling out a small tube of oil. He clenched the tube between his teeth as he rushed to get his trousers and pants down around his ankles. The oil he dribbled onto one hand went seeking Mycroft's cleft, working a finger in slowly, letting him adjust. Greg leaned over Mycroft's back, nibbling kisses here and there on his neck, obscured slightly by the collar of his shirt, slowly working in a second finger, listening to Mycroft's short panting and masked moans. "Yessssss, Detective Inspector. That, ngh, feels so, ah, good. Please give me your cock, sir. Pleeeeease," Mycroft moaned, shifting backwards onto Gregory's fingers, pushing harder and harder backwards on them, until his fingers crooked in just the right way, and made him see sparks. He moaned again, louder this time, and as Gregory's fingers slipped out of him, he whimpered at the loss. No sooner had he finished the whimper did Gregory's cock line up against him, and his body yielded completely to the pressure, caving in and allowing him to sink down on it.

Greg used one hand to push down on Mycroft's shoulder, gaining purchase to thrust harder and faster, and the other one to hold Mycroft's jacket and shirt up and out of the way. "Touch yourself," he husked out, voice dropping deep into baritone. "God, Mycroft you feel so –geh- wonderful." He couldn't stop the moan escaping from his lips, a matching one leaving Mycroft's throat as his hand closed around his cock, Gregory's thrusts making him rock into his own hand. Mycroft's moans were getting louder by the second, high on the pleasure of his hand around his dick, Gregory's inside of him.  
>"Come for me, Mycroft," Greg barked out. "I want to feel you coming while I'm inside you." Mycroft groaned, twitched his hips as Gregory's dick slid over that spot, making him see stars, and not but five strokes later was coming hard and white against the hood of Gregory's police car. He let out a high keening sound as he came, body seizing up around Gregory's prick.<p>

Greg breathed shallow breaths, and sped up, Mycroft's muscles tightening around his dick. Oh how he loved that feeling. The feeling you can only get from being buried so deep in someone you love, you can feel their heartbeat pounding out a rhythm, and knowing yours matches. He let go of Mycroft's clothing, and slid his hand underneath to Mycroft's come, swiping his fingers through it, and lifted his fingers to his mouth. "Ohhhhh God, Mycroft, you taste so goooooooood, I'm going-"his breathing hitched as he came, stars exploding behind his eyes. He slumped over Mycroft's body, prick still twitching inside his lover's body, and regained his breath. Once he had recovered, Greg slid out, and rolled over, leaning back against the hood, starting to pull up his pants and trousers. Mycroft rolled over, reaching for his own pants and trousers, tucking himself back inside, and straightening his shirt and jacket.

Greg leaned his head next to Mycroft's, looking up at the night sky, before turning his head to kiss his lover's brow. Mycroft merely smiled, content to hold the silence. Abruptly, Greg stood up, and walked over to the driver side door, reaching in to the dash. He returned to Mycroft, a small tape in hand.

"Here," he said. "One for the collection. I've got to get back." He kissed Mycroft softly, pressing the tape into his hand.

Mycroft returned the kiss, smiling knowingly. "Be safe, Gregory," he said, leaning up from the hood, and turning to face him.

"I will, don't worry. I'll be home in the morning." Greg slid into the driver's seat, and drove off, back to the Met.

Mycroft keeps a special video tape in his collection. There were very few encounters he taped, but this one was particularly lovely. He occasionally took it with him when he went out of town on business, and would call Gregory, and leave him messages, groaning into the phone. This particular tape was from about two years prior, and involved a cop car, which Greg had provided, a video camera, which came along with the cop car, and the ability to make him come like nothing else.


	3. Chapter 3: Prompts 11 through 20

**011. Red**  
>He's all over Mycroft in an instant, pushing him against the wall. His tongue plunders the taller man's mouth, seeking solace and comfort, gets his jeans undone, pants pushed down, and huffs when Mycroft's trousers are not as easily overcome. He pulls back, and yanks at them, and sends them cascading down his lover's legs, and finally, hips fitted together, he can grab their cocks, both groaning, and rub them together, spit lubricating the powerful tugging and pulling. It doesn't take long to bring them to orgasm, shouting Mycroft's name, so fucking pleased he's home. Oh, how he's missed this.<p>

**012. Orange**  
>They curled in front of the roaring fire, Mycroft resting his head on Greg's stomach. "Mycroft," Greg starts, fingertips dragging in his lover's hair, "I think we should get married. These last six months have been hell, not knowing where you've been. I can't keep worrying like this. If you say no, I won't be offended. Please say yes. I promise you'll be the happiest man alive." The fire kept roaring, while Mycroft sat up and pinned him down, bringing his lips so close to whisper, "yes, Gregory. A million times, yes," and proceeded to kiss his fiancée with gusto.<p>

**013. Yellow**  
>Greg woke first that morning, that first precious morning that Mycroft was finally back home where he belonged instead of some godforsaken Paraguayan prison, being held for ransom. He woke to a warm body that he knew, loved, and would do anything to protect, Mycroft's arms wrapped neatly around his torso, head pillowed on his arm. Greg couldn't help but be giddy, especially after last night. He laid a gentle kiss to the top of Mycroft's head, and snuggled closer, intent on having a long lie-in that morning, and showing Mycroft just how happy he was to have him home.<p>

**014. Green**  
>Mycroft is being fitted for new clothes, and he can feel the waves of jealousy radiating off of Greg about the close proximity of the tailor. None of his clothes fit after returning from Paraguay. He's lost too much weight, and they're not alterable. The tailor's hand goes up Mycroft's inseam with a tape measure, and his Greg-senses can tell that he is becoming more outraged as this goes on. It's understandable - he's been back less than a week, and Greg would like him to himself. Unfortunately, he is due to return to work, and the fitting cannot wait.<p>

**015. Blue**  
>It's the first clear day in almost a week when Mycroft returns to work, and Greg, unsurprisingly, wished the cheerful sky didn't contradict his mood, so he could go outside and enjoy it. But, no, he wanted to stay inside, and lay on the couch, ignoring the wintry blue sky. His first real day off, without having to catch up on paperwork or be called in to work, and he's missing out on enjoying it, because it's a Monday, and Mycroft has gone. He sighs, and rolls over for a nap on the sofa, wishing it could be evening already.<p>

**016. Purple**  
>Gregory had a shirt, a wonderful shirt, the name of the color was Byzantium, and he absolutely loved it when he wore it. Though, he'd only worn it twice: once when they had dinner at The Cascade after he'd been gone out of the country for two weeks, and once at his own request during a particularly lengthy bout of sex. Tonight, apparently, the shirt had reappeared as Gregory was in the kitchen, hovering over the stove, music blaring, shirt unbuttoned and untucked. He entered the kitchen silently, and slid his hands under that lovely shirt, kissing his neck. "Hello."<p>

**017. Brown**  
>Greg's favorite color on Mycroft was brown. He had this lovely rich chocolate brown suit that was always worn with that Byzantium tie, the one that matched his own shirt, the one Mycroft bought on purpose to get him to wear that shirt more often. This suit hugged Mycroft's bottom quite nicely, pressed pleats extending to just under the curve of it. He loved that arse - loved to grope it when they were home, to taste it when they were having sex, the way it looked in clothes and out of them. The mere thought was making him hard.<p>

**018. Black**  
>He looked perfect. "Ready for this, then?" Mycroft smiles, "of course." They stepped into the small room together. It was a small ceremony, the official documentation having been signed days ago, but for the benefit of their relatives and close friends. John clapped him on the back, congratulating him, while Sherlock sulked in the corner. He genuinely looked bothered that Mycroft looked so happy. Mycroft kept letting his smile come across his face, unintentionally for sure, which he could only take to mean that he was genuinely happy. He only hoped that he could keep his wonderful husband happy eternally.<p>

**019. White**  
>It was a lovely cake. They had swiped the top layer, to freeze and eat on their anniversary. The white frosting of the cake contrasted lovely with the blue of the decorations that Mummy had insisted on. He couldn't resist swiping a finger down the side of his slice of cake into the frosting, and tasted it - heaven on a plate. He sent a text to Anthea, to get in contact with the baker and get more immediately. He had plans for that tonight. He hadn't had cake in over two years, and he was planning on indulging tonight.<p>

**020. Colourless**  
>They flew on a private jet, sipping champagne, over the open ocean, down to Curacao. Mycroft knew of a lovely beach house that they could use to enjoy their week together. He also knew that as soon as they arrived, everything would already be prepared for them, groceries stocked, the house open to the crashing of the waves and the clear blue water. The deck outside faced west, and made for spectacular sunsets. Or so he had heard. He relaxed back into his seat, sipping more of that clear sweet champagne, and just held his husband's hand, enjoying the trip.<p> 


	4. Chapter 4: Prompt 98

Two newly married men, and a bowl of frosting.

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><p>Taught teased peaks of pink flesh, begging to be nipped, sucked, and fondled.<p>

Hands travelled down that chest, fingers dragging on the slow slide, then dragging the nails back up, and over those hard nipple. Pushed back on shoulders to hold him against the wall, pinning him there, one hand fisted in his hair, his mouth attacking, tongues circling, dancing in and out of their joined mouths. The other hand tweaked a nipple, earning him a moan, which he swallowed greedily, and repeated on the other side, a touch harder this time, which produced an even louder groan than the first time

He drug those nails back down that tender soft stomach skin, and reached to cup his cock through his trousers, kneading slowly, his other hand, which had been fisted in hair, drug nails down his back, until it could cup his arse though those trousers and grab hold tightly.

He tilted his hips, slotting them together, and rubbed his naked front against the clothed one in front of him, making a show of it, groaning loudly.

The hand that had grabbed hold of that glorious arse reached to the side, and dipped his fingers into a waiting bowl of sweet frosting, and rubbed it against his cheek, leaning up to lick it slowly off. He returned the hand to the bowl, scooped more of it up, and began to slather it onto that chest, that lovely tanned chest, just begging to be marked. He licked a stripe of the frosting from sternum to collarbone, and kissed him again, reveling in the sweetness combined with that inherent taste of his lover, his husband - his everything.

"Time to lose the trousers," he said aloud, abandoning his hand from the groping and deftly undoing the zip and buttons, sliding them and his pants to pool on the floor, reaching underneath him to lift one leg, then the other, and fling the offending garments away.

He scooped a bit more frosting, and this time, avoided his chest altogether, and went straight for his lover's prick- long, red, and glistening at the tip. He traced some frosting on it, and stooped to slooooooowly lick it off, relishing the taste, and took him fully in mouth, hand around the base, and sucked once, twice, before backing off again, to add frosting to his lover's stomach, gently teasing the flesh there - that hardened stomach from years of working the beat. He loved to lick those lines of his abs, and traced a frosting-dipped finger along them, following after with his tongue and that finger dropped again to the waiting cock, still hard and begging for his attention. That finger, still soft with the sweetness of the frosting, traced from root to tip and back under, down to his sac, and further back. Where the finger went, so did tongue, claiming all of that frosting, the sweetness of it, and the saltiness of his lover's skin driving him mad.

"Would you like me to?" he asked, finger circling lightly at his cleft, waiting, circling predatorily.

A slow nod was all he needed before pushing in slowly, giving him time to adjust, the slow slide in made easier by the traces of the frosting clinging to his fingers

"Turn," he said, and pushed at his hip with his free hand, bidding him access to his backside.

He turned slowly, and if not for the steadying hand, might've fallen over from the sheer weakness his knees were feeling. That finger slowly worked him, mouth never far away, and when the finger retreated, and slid out, the mouth took its place, lapping up the sugary substance, probing him gently, until the finger returned, the frosting blood-warm against his skin.

"Tell me what you want," he said, voice husky, two octaves lower than normal. He knew his arousal would get to him, but he hoped, by the sheer restraint he had been trying to show, that he would last.

"You," he said slowly, voice gravely with arousal, "'always you."

It was too much, the voice always got to him

He stood abruptly, and slid his finger out, and roughly added another one, stretching the well-used muscles there, sliding back out to add a third when the voice stopped him again.

"Now, no more, just now."

Who was he to argue, especially when his lover had demanded of him the only thing he could never resist - to hold him up against that wall and fuck him until they both came, screaming each other's names.

He reached for the bowl, slathering his own cock with the sweetness he was sure to never look at the same way again, roughly shoved his husband around again, looking him in the eyes, and lifted one leg around his waist, getting their collective balance, and waited until his lover lifted the other one, settled back against the wall, and sank down on his cock.

There were absolutely not enough words in the English dictionary to describe how good it felt to be inside him, amazing, fantastic, wonderful, lovely, all those words poets used to talk about how beautiful things are just paled in comparison to what this felt like, someone should write poetry about this, he thought briefly, before his mind was ripped away in the form of the spectacle in front of him.

"Okay?" he asked, waiting for confirmation.

"Nngh- yeah, now."

It was all the affirmation he needed. He pulled back slowly, letting him brace his hands against the wall, and began to pump, the frosting, god, that glorious frosting, making that slide so sweet, dipping his cock into his husband's wonderful body- fully in, back out until only the tip remained, and then slamming home again.

This is how they loved it, fast, hard, and just wild enough to keep it very interesting.

He picked up a rhythm, leaning away from the wall just enough to aid in the lifting and lowering of his hips, gaining speed and purchase, until he finally saw white, that spot, oh god there it was. He repeated the motion, and pushed harder down, so his lover pushed him harder back against the wall, gliding into him over and over, touching that center of nerves, making spots in his vision

"Guh-gonna-jesusgodi'mcoming-," he shouted harshly. He made a high keening noise, his body in spasms around the cock buried deep inside him, and his lover picked up speed, spurned on by the lovely stripe of come decorating his love's stomach.

He drug a finger through it, the one that had been previously covered with frosting, and stuck it into his mouth. God it was just too much, the sweetness of the frosting, the saltiness of skin and come, and that taste that was intrinsically him. It pushed him over the edge and he groaned aloud, "loveyouloveyougodloveyou," thrusting hard into the pliant body above him, once, twice, three times, until he was coming harder than he had in a long time.

Slowly, his lover lowered his legs, letting the cock slide out of him, and crumpled to the floor in an undignified heap. He soon followed suit, leaning hard against the wall, catching his breath

"That was-god there isn't even words for it," his husband crooned to him.

"Amazing. Spectacular. Fantastic. Best sex ever, they don't seem to come close to what that was."

"No, they sure don't."

They lay there on the floor, clothes rumpled around them, and just enjoyed the bliss of their first bout of married sex, until he noticed the bowl still sitting there, innocently.

He took it down from the table, and looked at it thoughtfully, before offering it up.

"Frosting?"

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><p>This was prompted by the lovely UmbrellaAddict. She asked for sex up against the wall. I just added the cake.<p>

Also, this takes place between 19 and 20.

Thirdly, I cannot be held responsible if you can't look at frosting the same way after this. Apologies.

Fourth, this is meant to be ambiguous point of view. I specifically wrote it that way


End file.
